


Blood and Raspberry Juice

by Nanimok



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Fluff, M/M, Mild Gore, References to Wiedźmin | The Witcher, Super Mild, The Witcher AU, Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 21:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15693321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: Curling one hand around the bat medallion slung around his neck, a medallion identical to Tim’s, one end of Damian’s mouth curls down. “I can’t imagine he gave you my location for free.”Tim remembers all the murky, sludgy water he had to dive through at Jason’s request, and he shudders. “No,” Tim agrees. “He didn't. After using me as a personal fetch dog for waters darker than sewage, he teleported me outside, in the rain, on top of a puddle.”A small smile crosses Damian’s face. It usually does when Tim’s suffering is involved.





	Blood and Raspberry Juice

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly based in the world of The Witcher 3: Blood and Wine DLC. Brushes up past some mild gore and body horror that's Witcher-verse typical. Nothing too explicit though!

A pleasant surprise, for Tim, is usually along the lines of a warm bath, decadent food, maybe some sweets, followed by a long slumber on a fluffy mattress. The latter, especially. Lately, his nights have been a blur of cold dirt and straw beds, and he can’t remember the last time he slept in bed that was softer than the ground.

In short, his idea of a pleasant surprise is definitely not being catapulted into a drenched city of Touissant caught in a middle of a storm— _Jason_.

Heat sears his drenched skin the moment he steps into the inn. Patrons cheer and clap as a the sharp notes of a fiddle folds around him, and light from well-placed candles and a fireplace cast an orange shadow to the room. Tim searches the inn until he smalls a short figure tucked into a secluded corner, nursing a mug in his hands, sitting surrounded by bread and fruit on the table.

Damian doesn’t glance up as Tim draws near, his boots squelching as he slides into his seat across from Damian.

Tim slips his gloves off and helps himself to some bread. “That better not be ale you’re drinking,” Tim says while chewing. “Alfred doesn’t allow the consumption of alcohol prior to a certain age he feels appropriate—even after completing their witcher training, which, if I recall correctly, you haven’t finished.”

There was a moment of silence where Damian probably contemplates the merits of ignoring him.

“Drake,” Damian finally says.

“Hello, Damian,” Tim says. “Are you even old enough to be patroning these kinds of establishments alone? I can’t imagine you are. Although, I’d be suitably impressed if you’ve managed to Axii the innkeeper into letting you stay—”

“What are you doing here, Drake?”

“It’s good to see you whole too, Damian,” Tim says, ignoring the interruption. “I’m doing great myself. Picked up scrolls for one or two wraiths along the way, but I’m more or less in one piece, thank you for asking.”

Damian peers over his cup at Tim, a challenging gaze that Tim meets amidst the clatters and clacking of wooden utensils being used. He looks older than Tim remembers. Still young, still chubby around his cheeks, but lankier from the shoulders down.

Damian sighs, defeated. “How did you find me?”

“Wasn’t too hard,” Tim says. “You’re angry with Bruce and Dick. Figured the other person in the family who’s also angry with Bruce and Dick would know where you were. Turns out I was right.”

Curling one hand around the bat medallion slung around his neck, a medallion identical to Tim’s, one end of Damian’s mouth curls down. “I can’t imagine he gave you my location for free.”

Tim remembers all the murky, sludgy water he had to dive through at Jason’s request, and he shudders.“No,” Tim agrees. “He didn't. After using me as a personal fetch dog for waters darker than sewage, he teleported me outside, in the rain, on top of a puddle.”

A small smile crosses Damian’s face. It usually does when Tim’s suffering is involved.

“I hate portals. They always make me woozy,” Tim grumbles. “Jason reckons himself a jester, but he has the oddest, most macabre, sense of humour out of everyone I know. My boots are still soggy as we speak.”

“Bold claim from someone who regularly carts around bits of blood, flesh, and offal smeared on their armour,” Damian says.

“Yes, but Jason takes gallows humour to a whole new level,” Tim says. “Possibly a relic from all the times he found himself escaping the actual gallows. Which is bit too often, if you ask me.”

“Todd has escaped the gallows?” Damian asks, eyebrows raised.

“He grew up on the streets of Novigrad during the witch hunts,” Tim explains. “That’s where Bruce found him, and that’s where he became Bruce’s ward.”

“Huh,” Damian says. “I never knew, even though I was aware of him being half mad from keeping his magic secret. Speaking of, your scar is new.”

Finished with the bread, Tim reaches for Damian’s mug. “Which one?”

“The one beside your ear.” Damian traces a line crossing down his jaw, before slapping Tim’s wandering hand away from his drink. “Wasn’t there when I saw you last. Hands off my drink, Drake. Get one of your own.”

“Close encounter with a bilge hag,” Tim says, eyeing up the mug for an ambush. “Had a second where I mistook it for Vicky Vale. Boy, I paid dearly for it.”

Bilge hags are nasty creatures, with bony growth sticking out its spine, rotten skin pulled back and hanging off his skeleton. Vicky Vale is a poet whom they all despise. A joke about Vale, no matter how bad, usually brings out a chuckle from Damian, but he remains sombre.

Some maiden screeches in delight, and a hearty laughs follows. The floor is sticky from all meade and ale spilled. There are worse places to be having a serious talk, Tim supposes, but at least there’s not a single corpse in sight.

“Alright, Damian.” Tim wipes his mouth with his hand. “What’s the matter?”

“What do you mean what’s the matter?”

“I mean you and Dick _imploding,_ and you taking off on your own, when last I remember, you were…” Tim thinks of an appropriate word to describe the elation on Damian’s as he spun through the air and sliced down with his sword. “Content,” he decides.

 _Happy,_ Tim ventures secretly in his mind. Damian followed Dick around like a puppy.

Around them, a round of boisterous applause begins as a new performer steps onto the stage, and Damian presses his lips together.

“What do you know of my elder blood?” Damian asks.

“Let’s see.” Tim taps his chin. “I know it’s capable of great magic, as the usual with elven blood, were it not latent in your genes.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not latent,” Damian says, the lines creasing the corner of his mouth growing deeper. “Not many people know. It’s a closely guarded secret; the elven blood in me is active.” Damian gives a dry laugh. “It’s like they’ve always said; I was born for greater things.”

For the first time, Tim hears the weariness that drags his declaration.

“Did something happen?” Tim asks. “With Dick? About him finding out?”

“Not about him finding out.” Damian’s expression twists into something bitter. “He already knew. That was the problem.”

Tim’s lost. “Sorry, I’m not following.”

Damian forcibly flexes the hand still holding the bat medallion. “When I first became Grayson’s ward, he was a firm taskmaster. Strict. Harsh even,” Damian says. “He was quick with his reprimands and sparse with his praise. He chose me as his ward when he could have left me behind. I vowed to always meet his rigorous standards.”

“Dick has always been very focused when it came to training,” Tim agrees carefully.

“And I appreciated it,” Damian says, bluntly. “Firm and harsh was familiar, it was something I can handle. It wasn’t much difference than the training I would get with my grandfather. When his countenance changed, I thought it could be attributed to our improving relationship as ward and mentor, or the exceptional progress to my training. But I was mistaken. Grayson took me in at the behest of my mother. He was in debt to her, for something he wouldn’t enlighten me of. The moment his countenance towards me started to change was the moment he found out my magic would be powerful enough to destroy the Wild Hunt.”

Damian breaks off, cheeks red from exertion. 

Oh, Tim sees it now. “Damian—”

“Then, I find out he was colluding with Mother, keeping correspondence with her. One minute he can’t stand her, and the next, I find that he’s conspiring with her. Maybe he thought I would be more receptive to his plans if we were more attached? I don’t know, and I no longer care. He’s just like Father, and Mother, and Grandfather. He's just like the rest of them, and I don’t care for—being made the _fool_ for thinking _otherwise._ ”

Damian is so lethal, Tim thinks to himself, so talented at becoming a killer that Tim often forgets how young he truly is. He’s also never seen Damian curling into himself because he’s been hurt.

“Damian, you have to understand,” Tim says. “There’s a special form of hatred Dick holds for the Wild Hunt and Deathstroke—”

Damian frowns, his shoulders rising up. “So you think I’m being unreasonable?”

“No,” Tim answers firmly. “I think you’re well within your rights to be upset. He was planning on using you without informing you of his plans. That was callous of him.”

The harsh line of Damian’s shoulder softens and deflates slightly. “Good. I’m…glad someone understands.”

“But. _But—_ and please heed me on this—Dick’s terrible with his own emotions,” Tim says. “I’m not doubting you about his actions. He’s calculating, and he can be manipulative with his convoluted schemes. He’s a master at pulling and prodding other people’s emotions, but he could never say the same of his own. If any sort of attachment formed during your days as his ward, then I can assure you it’s all very genuine. Albeit, severely unexpected.”

Damian scoffs. “I doubt that.”

But he doesn’t fight when Tim reaches over for his mug, and he’s quiet as Tim drinks all of it.

Raspberry juice, Tim find out. Refreshingly sweet and tangy on his tongue. Even when he’s upset, Damian is still mindful of Alfred’s rules.

“Before, you said Grayson holds a special hatred for the Wild Hunt?” Damian asks. “Will you elaborate on that? It’s that why he’s so…”

“Obsessed?” Tim offers.

“For lack of a better word.”

In Tim’s opinion, there are no better words to describe the frenzy that plagues Dick when the topic is broached.

“He’s single-minded about their downfall,” Damian says. “Sometimes, it’s all he thinks of.”

“It’s because he rode with the Wild Hunt,” Tim says. “Once.”

“What?” Damian sits back, shocked. “He rode with them? He told you this?”

“No,” Tim says. “I gathered it from the others. Then Jason more or less confirmed it for me. It was before my time at Kaer Morhen.”

“Todd confirmed it for you?” Damian asks. “He rode with them too?”

“No, but Dick didn’t ride with them, at first. They were taken about the same time,” Tim explains. “That’s the most Jason would confirm without explicitly saying it. Something happened shortly after which lead to Dick becoming a rider and Jason escaping.”

“That’s the most Todd would confide to anyone,” Damian points out. “What happened next?”

“What usually happens next,” Tim says. “He was a rider, and he was talented at it—like he is with most thing. Dick lost himself in the hunt and the streets he rode upon was paved with blood by his hand. From the stories I’ve collected, the King of the Wild Hunt sounded as if he favoured him, and looked to shape Dick into one of his generals. At some point, his mask came off, and that’s why, at times, you have the one off person cowering from his face.”

“I see,” Damian mutters. “It explains why any mention of Deathstroke enrages him so.”

Tim nods. “He and Jason didn’t remember it at first. Jason’s memories came back with his magic, then he found a way to give Dick his. Then—well—Dick has been seeking penance for his actions ever since.”

“I have no interest in being his half-assed attempt at penance,” Damian says flatly.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Regardless,” Damian says, “I have no interest in being a pawn in his plans. I have no interest in people masquerading their interest in my elder blood as something different, and I have no interest in any plans people make around me, that’s about me, but without my knowledge or my say. _Period._ ”

“Fair enough,” Tim says. “So where are you off to now? Heading back to Kaer Morhen?”

“I’m not sure,” Damian says. “I haven’t decided. I simply rode off, and once I started, I couldn’t stop.”

Figures that Damian would ride off into the most prosperous, yet dangerous, area so blindly. Damian is nothing, if not precocious. Although, if Jason and Cass has been keeping an eye on him, Damian shouldn’t have gotten into much trouble on the roads.

“I’m not ready to go back,” Damian decides. “To either Kaer Morhen or Grayson. I suppose, I’m not quite sure of what I’m doing.”

A thought strikes Tim. “I have an offer for you,” Tim says. “Finish your training with me, and be my ward.”

Once again, Damian seems taken aback. “We don’t even get along.”

“We’re getting along right now,” Tim says. “And I don’t remember why we didn’t get along before, but we’ve changed. And I understand a little about taking off suddenly because you’re mad at Bruce and Dick. You may have completed the trial of glasses, but you’ve still yet a long way to go from becoming a witcher.”

Thinking on it, Damian says, “I don’t know…”  

“You shouldn’t travel alone any deeper, as well,” Tim says. “Touissant monsters are heartier. There are even whispers of vampire sighting around the area.” He shrugs. “I can’t promise you any epic adventures, but I wouldn’t say they’re forgettable either. Sometimes I meet up with Cass on my travels. Then we’d sail for Skellige to visit Stephanie or do jobs together before we part ways.”

Damian searches Tim’s face, and becomes slightly hesitant at what he finds there. “Alright,” he decides. “If you insist.”

“I do,” Tim says. “Besides, it’ll be fun. I’ve never had a ward before—I’ve only recently started travelling with Jason, and having a companion is nicer than I thought it would be.”

“Alright,” Damian says again, but this time, there’s certainty in tone. A sort of peace. “When do we begin?"

“We can check the notice board for jobs in the morning, after we get some rest,” Tim says. “That way, I can familiarise myself with how far your witcher senses has developed. I’m stuck in this area until Jason brings Redbird in, anyway. As for immediate plans...”

A waitress passes with a bowl smelling of salt, herbs and hearth. Tim’s eyes follows their movement, and his stomach rumbles in agreement.

“I’m going to have some mutton stew, because it smells absolutely tantalising,” Tim says. “Now, have any stories to pass the time?”

“Nothing particularly interesting,” Damian says. “But…thank you, Drake.”

Tim waves his hand. “It’s fine. Forget about it. Now, if you don’t have any stories, I’ve got one for you. Have I told you about the last case I had? A haunted house that ended with a sorceress befriending a godling?”

 

* * *

 

A little after dawn breaks, Tim and Damian gallops down the main road on borrowed horses. The ride also provides a good chance for more stories and updates on the kind of bestiary Damian has previously encountered. Tim also enjoys flexing his practical knowledge in front of a willing listener. Together, they search for traces of violence or disturbances that hasn’t been washed away from the rain.

In terms of senses and intuition, Damian has already developed a strong foundation of his own under Dick’s guidance. His eyesight is attuned to blood smears, and the range of his hearing is wider than expected. All Tim has to do is help him refine it.

“You’ve read up on Touissant monsters, correct?” Tim asks, rummaging through his saddle bag. “Any guesses on what this may be?”

From where he crouches, Damian rubs soot between his fingers. “From the size of the prints, and the claw and fang marks we’ve passed, I would have normally said wolves. But wolves don’t breathe fire. These tracks are too infrequent and if I recall correctly, we passed a cemetery here. Spectres. A pack of barghest, perhaps?”

“It’s what I’m thinking. Catch.”

Tim tosses a vial. Damian catches it with one hand. “Spectre oil?” Damian asks, eyeing the bright gold liquid.

“Enhanced.” Tim brings a vial out of his own—his one red, holding the normal unenhanced oil—and douses a cloth before rubbing it on his silver sword. “We’ll set off from here by foot. Barghests can blind you momentarily when they dash, and be careful of the fire they breathe; the bigger the hound, the bigger it’s torching range.”

“I’ve always wondered if they could be tamed,” Damian observes. “They would make great travelling companions.”

Tim imagines Damian under a pile of muscled hellhounds, with skin where their eyes should be, ribs jutting out of their torso, and blood dripping down their maws.

 “If you somehow manage such a miracle, feel free to share,” Tim says. “For now, single them out from the pack when you strike and cut them down quick. No petting.”

Damian sighs as he uncaps his vial. Really, only Damian would consider befriending such a vicious beast, or maybe Damian’s time with Dick messed him up more than Tim realised.

Later on, while dodging a barghest dashing at him, he spots Damian casting an Axii in an attempt to coax out some compliance. If he weren’t rolling his body to avoid the flash of blinding white light, he would be rolling his eyes.

“I said no petting!” Tim calls out, before rebalancing his hold on the sword, spinning through the air, and severing a hound’s torso from its hindlegs. The body combusts into fire, and Tim hops back before the flames could lick him.

The good thing about spectres like barghests is how there’s no blood to splatter on him. Two careful slashes, and he make quick work with the last hound trapped in his Yrden circle, before turning to help Damian deal with his own. Before he could swing his sword down, a blast of air rushes past him.

A dagger buries itself in the barghest’s throat. The barghest reels up on his hindlegs. It freezes—a statue of clear white and ice blue—before the whole body cracks into small crystals of glass and shatters.

The dagger flies backwards before it hits the ground—

—and into Jason’s hands as he steps out of a portal, fringes of yellow closing in behind him. An image of black leather and a red cowl among bright green grass. He always did like to make a show with his entrances, Tim recalls.

He sheaths his sword back. “Nice knowing that you have contingency spells for when you can’t kill something with fire and bolts,” Tim says. “I was beginning to think that I’ve found your weakness.”

“You’re welcome,” Jason tells him, sliding his dagger back into his belt.

“Must you, Todd?” Damian asks. “Titus and I were on the verge of an emotional breakthrough.”

“Titus was about to rip your flesh apart and chew on your bones,” Jason says. “Hellhounds can only be charmed for seconds at a time. So I repeat; you’re welcome.”

“What took you so long?” Tim asks, walking to him. “Did you forget about me?”

Jason grins at him. “Missed me?” he asks, holding his arms out.

“I missed Redbird,” Tim says. “I missed being dry. A sensation I almost forgot when you chucked me on top of a puddle in the middle of a torrential downpour.”

“It was hardly a torrential downpour,” Jason says, but he pouts anyway and Damian snickers.

“Well,” Damian says, once he stops his snorts. “I’ll leave you two to reacquaint yourselves. If you need me, I’ll be searching through what remains of the carcasses.”

“Reacquaint ourselves,” Jason murmurs as Damian walks away. “One minute he’s thirteen befriending a hound, and another he’s a higher-vampire masquerading as a butler. Like Alfred. That kid is a conundrum.”

“Spare some sympathy for him, Jason. He’s having a rough patch.”

“I have,” Jason argues. “He got here in one piece, didn’t he? Did you manage to talk him back into going home?”

Tim makes a so-so gesture. “More or less, but the general talk was successful, if that’s what you’re wondering. Damian is in much better spirits today.”

“I noticed."

“Oh!” Tim says. “Did you bring Redbird with you?”

“Nice to know where I stand when it comes your horse,” Jason says ruefully. “He’s back at the inn, moping for his rider.”

“I missed him too,” Tim says, ignoring everything else. “Other horses aren’t the same.”

“You were apart for less than a day.”

“But he’s very particular,” Tim says. “He likes his hair brushed a certain way, spoiled steed. He hates getting it wet.”

 _‘Like his rider’_ goes unsaid, and Jason rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t lying when I said it was a pleasant surprise,” Jason says. “On top of finding Damian, we’re in Touissant. One of the only lands unravaged by war. I have a friend who can house us, a fellow sorceress. She can direct us to some of the most beautiful views and relaxing locations in Nilfgaard.”

Tim thinks of the lush estates they rode past, the vibrant greens of the trees and grass sprouting from earth unspoiled by rotting corpses. He thinks of the people, and how they lean more towards neutral than dislike for the likes of a witcher. He thinks the dawning sky; how it’s orange, red, and blue hues mix in a way that reminds Tim of Jason sitting by the firelight.

“There is that,” Tim concedes. "Touissant is quite a beauty."

“We could explore the hills and try some of their much vaunted wines,” Jason says. “I heard the fruits here are some the sweetest you’ll ever find in all of Nilfgaard. The festival begin a couple of days. We could browse the stalls and taste the best morsels Touissant has to offer.”

The thought of food and Tim almost drools. “Deal. I’ve got a couple of contracts to occupy me and Damian till then. Hopefully the festival will have drinks other than wine. Will you join us for the contracts?”

“Sure,” Jason says. “That sounds—wait. Ah. You and Damian? As in you, me…and Damian?”

“Yes,” Tim says slowly. “You, me, and Damian.”

“We’re not sending him home and coming back?”

“No, he’s my _ward_ , now.” Tim puffs out his chest. “I’m a _mentor_ and I have a _ward_. We’re a duo of our own.”

“A duo,” Jason says weakly.

They both turn to watch Damian gather up the crystal shards that was once Titus and bury it under a pile of dirt.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Tim says, “a couple of weeks ago, I rode through Crookback Bog and the eeriness of that swamp caused even _my_ hairs to rise. Some of the leaves were oddly shaped like human ears, and the more I think back on it…”

Tim pauses and puts that down in his mind as something worth investigating.

“Suffice to say,” Tim continues on, “travelling alone can be tiresome. I’m grateful that I’ll have you and Damian riding by my side.”

“Yes,” Jason mutters under his breath. “Me and Damian.”

Tim beams at him.

Jason throws a glance at Tim before sighing fondly. “I’ll have to tailor my plans slightly, but I’m sure our stay in Touissant will be as enjoyable,” Jason says, walking towards Damian. “Come. Let’s loot the carcasses and go back before Damian begins writing an eulogy for Titus.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Brief explanations:**  
>  **[Barghest](https://thewitcher3.wiki.fextralife.com/Barghest)** \- hellhounds found in Touissant.  
>  **Axii** \- a magical sign that muddles the mind of an opponent and makes them more agreeable towards you.  
>  **Yrden** \- a magical sign that forms a magical trap
> 
> Jason,,,,is trying so hard to set up a date,,,, Please notice him, Tim-senpai. 
> 
> Dick >:( Poor Dami. How cool would it be for Alfred to be the Regis in that verse. And Tim in Geralt's armour and Jason in Yen's collar >:3c 
> 
> Most of the quest referenced are from the Main Quest of The Witcher 3 but I don't think they're too spoilery. Please mention in the comments if you caught them!
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr](http://fatcatsarecats.tumblr.com)


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